hour Ron gave an informed commentary on the best restaurants, hotels, clubs and pottery factories.
‘Me brother-in-law works in the biggest pottery factory, in the centre of Palma. Got some lovely plates. You should make a trip of it. I can give you a guided tour; just call anytime. Call me direct and not through the company. I’ll give you a good rate!’
His hands left the wheel. The taxi veered across the road as Ron produced various cards for his other careers.
‘Please concentrate on the road,’ Anna instructed.
‘What I’ll have to do is pull over. Check me map.’
The taxi lurched to a stop. ‘Right. What was the name of the area?’
‘Alcona Way.’
He turned the pages, frowning, flicking from one page to another. It was obvious Ron didn’t have a clue where the villa was. Anna was gritting her teeth as he got out of the car. He crossed the road to a traffic policeman. Sighing, Anna watched them confer, look at the map dubiously, up and down. Then followed lots of arm gestures and hand flapping before Ron eventually returned to the taxi. Anna looked at her watch. It was almost two o’clock.
‘Right, I just gotta turn round. Head back towards the marina, then go left, up behind the old town.’
‘That’s the opposite direction,’ Anna snapped, on the verge of losing her temper.
‘It’s quite hidden. Part of a new development … that’s not quite developed,’ he laughed. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Fifteen minutes later, they left the old town behind them. Some distance further on, they came to well-cut hedgerows and good roads. The villas were now very exclusive, walled properties with glorious coloured bushes in full bloom. For a moment, Anna wondered how a retired ex-Vice cop could afford to live in this area; then the roads became uneven. Suddenly, she saw a lot of half-built properties and then Ron turned up a dirt track.
‘Should be up at the top here. Look for the road sign. It’s gotta be up here somewhere.’
Stones flew as the taxi bumped along the road, swaying and dropping into the occasional pothole. The sign ‘Alcona Way’ was lying on its side. Ron backed up a few yards and turned in to what was little more than a cart track. At the end of the track there was a large, electronically controlled gate. ‘Villa Marianna’ was picked out in scrolled wrought iron with a Spanish dancer beside it.
Anna climbed out of the back seat of the car and pressed the security button. Before she could say a word the gates opened, revealing a paved driveway curving to the right. The taxi passed a large swimming pool with various sun loungers nearby, all in a bad state of repair. A ripped canopy hung limply, providing limited shade to the pool area. And there, behind the flowering bougainvillaea, was a sprawling villa: two storeys high, with white shutters, many of them hanging loose.
Ron had been silent until they drove to the front porch, where a number of very expensive cars were parked: a Porsche, a Saab convertible and a yellow Corniche, its white roof pulled back to reveal creamy white leather seats.
‘Bloody hell! Very nice. Very nice,’ Ron muttered, pulling on the handbrake.
‘Can you wait to take me back to the airport?’ Anna asked.
‘I’ll have to charge fer waitin’ time.’
‘Charge me. But don’t leave, I have a plane to catch.’
Anna got out of the car and pressed the intercom. She waited a good few minutes before she pressed it again and then had to jump backwards quickly as a man swung open the door. He was tanned, with dark, silky, shoulder-length hair. His washed-out denim shirt was open to his navel.
‘Yes?’ he said, bored.
‘I’m here to see Barry Southwood.’
He hardly glanced at her again as he led the way into a large tiled reception area.
‘Barry! Barry!’ he shouted up a sweeping wide marble staircase. ‘BARRY!’ Without another word, he ran up the stairs two at a time, disappearing past a landing.
Anna stayed in the hallway,
‘Me brother-in-law works in the biggest pottery factory, in the centre of Palma. Got some lovely plates. You should make a trip of it. I can give you a guided tour; just call anytime. Call me direct and not through the company. I’ll give you a good rate!’
His hands left the wheel. The taxi veered across the road as Ron produced various cards for his other careers.
‘Please concentrate on the road,’ Anna instructed.
‘What I’ll have to do is pull over. Check me map.’
The taxi lurched to a stop. ‘Right. What was the name of the area?’
‘Alcona Way.’
He turned the pages, frowning, flicking from one page to another. It was obvious Ron didn’t have a clue where the villa was. Anna was gritting her teeth as he got out of the car. He crossed the road to a traffic policeman. Sighing, Anna watched them confer, look at the map dubiously, up and down. Then followed lots of arm gestures and hand flapping before Ron eventually returned to the taxi. Anna looked at her watch. It was almost two o’clock.
‘Right, I just gotta turn round. Head back towards the marina, then go left, up behind the old town.’
‘That’s the opposite direction,’ Anna snapped, on the verge of losing her temper.
‘It’s quite hidden. Part of a new development … that’s not quite developed,’ he laughed. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Fifteen minutes later, they left the old town behind them. Some distance further on, they came to well-cut hedgerows and good roads. The villas were now very exclusive, walled properties with glorious coloured bushes in full bloom. For a moment, Anna wondered how a retired ex-Vice cop could afford to live in this area; then the roads became uneven. Suddenly, she saw a lot of half-built properties and then Ron turned up a dirt track.
‘Should be up at the top here. Look for the road sign. It’s gotta be up here somewhere.’
Stones flew as the taxi bumped along the road, swaying and dropping into the occasional pothole. The sign ‘Alcona Way’ was lying on its side. Ron backed up a few yards and turned in to what was little more than a cart track. At the end of the track there was a large, electronically controlled gate. ‘Villa Marianna’ was picked out in scrolled wrought iron with a Spanish dancer beside it.
Anna climbed out of the back seat of the car and pressed the security button. Before she could say a word the gates opened, revealing a paved driveway curving to the right. The taxi passed a large swimming pool with various sun loungers nearby, all in a bad state of repair. A ripped canopy hung limply, providing limited shade to the pool area. And there, behind the flowering bougainvillaea, was a sprawling villa: two storeys high, with white shutters, many of them hanging loose.
Ron had been silent until they drove to the front porch, where a number of very expensive cars were parked: a Porsche, a Saab convertible and a yellow Corniche, its white roof pulled back to reveal creamy white leather seats.
‘Bloody hell! Very nice. Very nice,’ Ron muttered, pulling on the handbrake.
‘Can you wait to take me back to the airport?’ Anna asked.
‘I’ll have to charge fer waitin’ time.’
‘Charge me. But don’t leave, I have a plane to catch.’
Anna got out of the car and pressed the intercom. She waited a good few minutes before she pressed it again and then had to jump backwards quickly as a man swung open the door. He was tanned, with dark, silky, shoulder-length hair. His washed-out denim shirt was open to his navel.
‘Yes?’ he said, bored.
‘I’m here to see Barry Southwood.’
He hardly glanced at her again as he led the way into a large tiled reception area.
‘Barry! Barry!’ he shouted up a sweeping wide marble staircase. ‘BARRY!’ Without another word, he ran up the stairs two at a time, disappearing past a landing.
Anna stayed in the hallway,
Similar Books
